


Stiles and His Gun

by Conduitstreetcat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Afghanistan, Army, Blow Jobs, Gun Kink, M/M, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 22:40:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19282654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Conduitstreetcat/pseuds/Conduitstreetcat
Summary: In In Sanguine Veritas (https://archiveofourown.org/works/17944151/chapters/42376148), a few references are made to Stiles, Sebastian's old SAS patrol mate, and his gun.There is no way Sebastian could ever tell Jim the story, because, despite his normally sunny and pleasant disposition, Jim is quite jealous.So here is a sneak peek into Sebastian's time in Afghanistan, long before he had any idea that Jim Moriarty even existed.





	Stiles and His Gun

I swat a mosquito in my neck with my left hand, my right carrying a cup of coffee. Little fucker – I just had a shower, was going to cover in DEET back in the tent – he must have been lying in wait. Or she – it’s the females that bite, isn’t it? Appropriate.

It was good to have a leisurely shower without people around. Pretty much everyone is at the buzkashi game, the first of the season – I pleaded a headache and said I wanted an early night. It’s not untrue – my head feels a bit fuzzy – but really I just wanted no people for a bit.

This whole business with the boys getting killed hit me harder than I’d expect. I normally don’t go sentimental about collateral casualties, or even people that I know getting killed – it’s what happens in war – but I had semi-paternal feelings for Najib. He was such a bright little kid; if he’d been born in the UK he’d have been a doctor like he wanted, and here – collateral damage, a statistic. No newspaper will announce it.

I curse, take a sip of my coffee – I’m going to add a stiff measure of whisky in the tent, then have a good sleep, and it will all magically feel better in the morning. Or something.

I open the door to the tent, step into the shady interior, pitch black after the sun outside, close it behind me, turn to move into the direction of my bed, when –

_adrenaline floods_

_danger – high alert_

_coffee cup drops to the ground_

_freeze_

the sound of a gun being cocked. Right behind me. A gun that’s now poking into my neck.

Assess – not here to kill me or I’d be dead. Potential hostage situation. ( _how did he get in!?_ ) Don’t try disarming him straightaway – better chance if you can see him. Raise your hands. Turn around.

“Right – don’t shoot me – _fayr naku_ \- I’ll turn around, and we can talk. Alright? _Khatarnak nastam_ \- I’m not doing anything – _lutfan sabr kuneed_ \- just turning around now,” I say calmly, moving slowly, keeping my ears peeled for any sound of protest.

The gun appears into my line of vision.

A P226? And that glove – sleeve –

fuck –

“ _Stiles?_ ”

_relief_

_anger_

_what the fuck_

I open my mouth to speak, but the gun moves closer –

“Shut your mouth, Moran.”

Cold. Stony.

My mouth closes. What the actual flying _fuck_ has got into Stiles – has he gone mental? Impossible-

Is he angry with me specifically? What did I do? Why isn’t he at the buzkashi? He loves buzkashi – what the fuck, Moran. He’s got a gun at your head. Stop thinking about his preferences in spectator sports.

“Move on up,” he gestures towards the rear of the tent, where our beds are. I lower my hands, walk to the back.

“What the _fuck_ , Henry-“

I don’t call him Henry – except on some occasions when we are all alone in our two-man tent, and no one can hear us-

“Shut up.”

What’s got into him? Did I piss him off? I can’t recall – I hardly spoke to him these past days, we’ve both been mad busy –

“On your knees.”

“What!?”

The gun moves closer.

“On. your. _knees_ , Moran.”

 

His eyes.

I know this man better than I know anyone. We’ve been together day and night for the past three years, I know what he thinks, what he feels, what he dreams.

His eyes –

He’s not angry. He’s not going to kill me. He’s –

 

Slowly, I sink to my knees, the gun following, coming to rest against my temple.

I swallow, look up at the figure of Stiles – imposing, broader and taller than I am, looking even taller from this angle. His eyes are large and dark in the twilight of the tent; his mouth quirks into half a smirk.

“That’s better… you look so much better from this angle, Moran. I think I should keep you like this; kneeling whenever I’m around…” he says in a low voice, the gun moving up through my hair.

His voice sounds – dark, hoarse –

I swallow again, shift my position on the hard ground. “You look much better from this angle too – distracts from your face,” I say. Immediately, his hand is on my jaw, squeezing.

“That’s your problem, Moran… your attitude. Time someone taught you a little _respect_ , don’t you think?” He squeezes harder.

I want to make another smart-arse comment, but –

part of me says hold on-

part of me says wait a minute-

part of me says – don’t you want to know what he’s going to do?

now he’s got you on your knees, a gun aimed at you, completely at his mercy –

don’t you want to find out what he’s got planned?

 

“What do you want, Stiles…” I grunt. Speaking is difficult when someone’s holding your jaw.

“That’s better…” he releases my head. “Take off your clothes.”

I move to stand up, but the gun returns to press into my temple.

“I said take off your clothes, not get up.”

I get back onto my knees, toe off my boots – I hadn’t done them up just to walk from the showers to the tent – with my socks, then pull my shirt over my head, undo my fly, push down my trousers – “Pants too.” – and my pants, move them over my knees, and pull them off.

There. One naked, kneeling Moran.

Huh. With a bit of a semi.

 

Stiles chuckles softly, strokes his gun through my hair.

“Hands on the floor, Moran.”

I put my hands onto the floor.

“Do you like my boots?”

I look at his boots. Same as my boots. Good boots.

“They’re amazing. Really bring out your eyes.”

Another soft chuckle.

“Kiss them.”

Well. Not sure if that’s very hygienic, but – they look freshly polished, so –

I lean forward onto my hands, move my head towards Stiles’ boots, kiss the right, then the left.

What the fuck, Sebastian? What are you _doing!?_

What I have to do – I’m held at gunpoint. I have no choice but to obey.

And it feels strangely liberating – not having to think. Not having to decide. Not having to plan, to anticipate, to strategize – all I have to do is kneel and do what the voice says. The familiar, trusted voice. With a gun.

My face is hovering close to the ground. I haven’t been given instructions – I’m just here. I notice my eyes have half closed.

The right boot moves, nudges my shoulder. “Up.” I sit up. A jingle, and a pair of handcuffs dangles before me.

“Bend over your bed.”

Is it me, or has the voice gone hoarser – throatier?

I turn, still on my knees, and lean over the narrow bed. Stiles walks around it, puts a cuff on my wrist, moves the other cuff round the bed frame, and closes it on my other wrist.

I’m kneeling, my torso resting partially on the narrow bed, my hands holding on to the rail I’m cuffed to. My semi is no longer a semi. There’s something immensely erotic about being bound to a bed, even a camping cot in a sixteen-man tent.

Stiles sits on the bed next to me, holds something in front of my face – my pants, scrunched up.

Sometimes when we’re in a tent and there are other tents nearby, I’ll use a pair of clean pants to avoid making too much noise. I can be quite vocal.

He’s offering me that.

I open my mouth; he pushes in the pants. I bite down on them.

Better.

He gets up again.

A jingle – he’s undoing his trousers –

no.

He’s pulling his belt out of its loops.

I brace myself –

_pain_

\- a line of fire burns across my buttocks.

“ _Fuck_ -” I gasp into the pants, clench my fingers around the metal rail. A second line follows straight after the first, making me gasp and jerk, but I stay put.

Why? It’s a light cot, I could just pick it up and smack him round the head. He’s not really going to shoot me, is he?

_lash_

I groan deep in my throat.

_lash_

Fuckkk – he doesn’t hold back. Stiles is a strong guy, and he whips like he means it.

_lash_

And fuck –

_lash_

No – pain – fuck – stop it –

_lash_

Deep breaths – keep breathing soldier, you can breathe through this –

_lash_

Oh god –

_lash_

\- god - _stop_ -

_lash lash LASH_

 

-

..

…

… nothing?

Has he stopped?

… am I –

disappointed?

 

A sound of someone swallowing liquid – he’s having a drink.

I’m still clenching the rail, breathing heavily through my nose, kneeling, naked. Waiting. Just waiting.

Another jingle. He’s picked the belt back up. I tense.

_lash_

Burning pain from my shoulder across my back –

Lashes follow each other, landing all over my back, back on my arse, my thighs – I screw my eyes shut, moan into the pants, clench and unclench my fingers, but stay down, stay there, take it, take every blow – feel it…

 

As he stops, it takes me a minute to realize that it is over. I was floating… almost as if in a trance… but the reality of the gun being pushed into my neck pulls me back to reality with a jolt. Cold metal trails along one of the fiery lines on my back, then the bed sinks as Stiles sits down on it, removes the pants, undoes the cuffs, pulls my arms back, cuffs them behind my back. Then pulls me up, turns me round to face him. The entire back side of my body is on fire, but my cock seems to only be encouraged by this – it’s rock hard, keenly pointing up at Stiles.

He’s only panting a little, looking down at me with satisfaction.

“I thought so… I thought that if only someone had the balls to take Little Lord Moran down a peg or two, he’d be much more agreeable…”

I growl at his mention of Lord Moran – I hate that name – but the gun makes its way to my throat, my jaw, presses against my teeth – harder – I open my mouth, and the barrel is shoved inside. I move my head to avoid gagging, the metallic taste sharp on my tongue. I look up at Stiles – steel eyes boring into mine. He pushes the gun a bit further in. I breathe in sharply. Release the breath.

His other hand grabs my hair, the gun is removed, and his cock takes its place.

This is familiar territory. Except I’m usually not on my knees before him, I’m usually not naked while he’s fully dressed, and I’ve usually not been whipped raw. Actually, this is quite unfamiliar territory indeed.

But this cock… I know this cock. This cock and I are best friends. I know what it likes, what it wants, and how it likes it.

But it seems that I don’t get much of a say in what happens at this point. Like the gun earlier, the cock is rammed into my mouth, and I can only do my best to accommodate, to not gag, to keep my teeth out of the way. It’s pulled back, pushed in again, as my head is being held firmly by the hair and the gun still points at my temple, and again, I just let go… let my head be used, my mouth be fucked, my hair be grasped – because I am being nothing, being pain, being another man’s pleasure…

… and apparently I needed this bastard to show me that I fucking love that…

His movements speed up, he’s been excited by the procedures much as I have, muffled curses drift through the tent, but not too loud, never as loud as me, but I’m effectively gagged, as the pounding goes on – and there’s nothing I can do except try not to choke, try not to gag, just – accommodate –

And then I feel the warm dull taste at the back of my throat, and I can’t swallow, I can only hold, wait, wait for the jerking movements to stop bashing into my mouth, the hand to stop pulling my hair, the gun to stop poking into my neck – fucking careful Stiles, you’re spasming, one spasm of your finger and this is going to go further than I hope you intended –

\- but the gun lowers, and the cock leaves my mouth, and both hands are on my shoulders, leaning, as Stiles is panting, muttering “Fucking hell, Moran…”

“Fucking hell, Stiles…” I agree. My jaw hurts. My back and arse are on fire. And my cock has never been harder.

Stiles lets himself drop onto the bed, reaches over, undoes my cuffs.

“Turn around.”

His voice – still imperious. I turn once again, still on my knees.

Once again the gun pushes at my lip – I open my mouth, again – now what –

“I want to see you come. You got two minutes.”

Oh – yes – my hand moves to my cock, rock hard and leaking after all this – two minutes – or what?

No need to ask – there’s no way I wouldn’t be able to make that –

My hand rubs, fast, my breaths getting shallower around the barrel, the taste of gun oil on my tongue –

“Fucking hell, Moran… danger junkie _and_ pain slut…”

I growl again – careful, Stiles – but fuck, I can’t really deny it, can I? Not now, not here, not when I’m about to have a fucking mindblowing orgasm after – all that – kneeling naked on the floor, pain all over my body, a fucking gun in my mouth – god - _god_ -

And Moran, unabashed pain junkie and danger slut, _comes_ like he hasn’t come in ages… _moans_ as quietly as he can, which isn’t very… _shudders_ as his seed spills against his hand, _again_ and _again_ in an intensity that hasn’t had its equal in a _long_ time…

 

 

My head is heavy.

It’s resting on a knee. A hand is on my hair. Stroking? What the hell?

A tissue appears in my line of sight. I take it. My hand is trembling slightly.

That is impossible. I’m a sniper. My hands never tremble.

Must be a trick of the light.

It’s getting darker, anyway – the buzkashi game must be ending soon.

 

I best have a shower.


End file.
